Family life was the center of our Wooster Square neighborhood, and within the unspoken rules of behavior was the essential understanding that the family was a solid unit, always bonded by love and allegiance to each other.

Everyone who had immigrated from Italy understood the challenges of making a life in a new place and each member of the family was expected to make a contribution to that quest. The father worked, and sometimes mother as well. Children usually didn’t work outside the home until they left school, but, when they did, it was to contribute to the family welfare. The paycheck was handed over to the mother on payday and became part of the family financial resource.

All members of the family lived at home until they were married and ready to set up a home of their own. Not to say that the first generation didn’t take advantage of the educational resources available in New Haven. Within one generation, sons and daughters of the immigrants were attending college and joining the professions. But in general, finding a good job with a promise of longevity was considered a blessing, a mark of good fortune. Getting a job at Sargent, the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad or the New Haven Clock Factory was considered very desirable and provided stability and a guarantee of financial security.

Another thing that was universal was the meeting of the family at the dinner table, each and every night. It was very unusual to miss a meal with the family, and each housewife prepared meals that were very close to the foods that were eaten back in Italy. In some kitchens, a set menu was rotated through the week: soup on Tuesday, for instance, was considered desirable and usually macaroni on Friday to maintain the meatless church obligation. Very often, Saturday, payday, was steak night, a special treat.

The one meal that was universally served for Sunday dinner was macaroni dressed in a slow-cooked tomato sauce made with a variety of meats, but always a selection of beef and pork. I would venture to say that you would be hard-pressed to find a kitchen on a Sunday morning without that pot simmering on the stove. It was anticipated and respected, macaroni with tomato sauce — that was always Sunday dinner.

There might have been some variations with respect to how the sauce was prepared, which meats were included, or using canned or home-bottled tomatoes, or how long it simmered, but there was no doubting that when you entered the kitchen, the sauce pot would be there to welcome you, as was a platter of fresh fried meatballs ready to be dropped into the pan and available for sampling.

Each recipe for meatballs might vary slightly, but ideally they should be crispy on the outside with a soft flavorful interior. Dipping fresh bread in the sauce was encouraged and the pot of water ready to boil for the macaroni was on the ready. The simple meal, eaten together, enjoyed for its social aspects as much as for the deliciousness of the food, highlighted the day.

Sometimes, homemade pasta would be an added treat, or ravioli from Genoa Macaroni on Chestnut Street, but the endless variety of macaroni shapes always provided a different choice. Occasionally my mother, in spite of the store being open on Sunday morning, would make her potato cavatelli, hand-rolled and turned into curlicues with the tip of her finger. She would lay them out on a sheet to dry and we always considered them to be very special.

Of course, nothing was more special than lasagna, layered strips of pasta covered with three cheeses and tiny meatballs, bathed in tomato sauce and generally eaten on the high holidays.

Sunday morning also brought special musical entertainment on the kitchen radio. Italian music was featured and the familiar Neapolitan songs were played. There was even a locally produced program called “Hands Across the Sea,” which featured a trio of local musicians and the voice of Frank Teodosio, a local restaurateur. My mother would hum to the tunes and I could feel how pleasing it was for her to hear the music of her homeland.

There were clubs for the men to go to for card games and political talk, and bocce courts on which to play Italy’s popular game. One such place was a clubhouse named for Flavio Gioia, the reputed inventor of the mariner’s compass, who supposedly hailed from Amalfi. I would sometimes go to the clubhouse with my uncle Joe Prodigo and get treated to a bottle of Foxon Park soda, always available in the refrigerator. They had a garden outside the building in which they planted petunias and marigolds, something not often seen on Wooster Street.

Waterside Park, a large recreational facility on Water Street, was the place for baseball games and bike riding. This was the largest recreational area in the neighborhood, and was reserved for more organized activities. It was adjacent to the original Sargent plant and abutted Belle Dock, the pier where local fishermen would anchor their boats and sell their catch at the end of the day. There were a handful of men who made a living from those waters, and the local fish markets on Wooster and Chapel streets got their supplies from those boats.

I’m sure visiting the pier to buy fish must have seemed a very familiar sight for all the local Amalfitani who lived on the shore of the Gulf of Salerno in Italy. The notion of catching and selling fish right from the waters that are accessible from a city neighborhood seems strange today, but it was just one of the benefits of living in Wooster Square, a place that provided simple pleasures for us during simpler times.